


Harry Potter; A Life After Voldemort

by NothingButTeeth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anorexia, Drarry, Enemies to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced ED, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2018-10-24 23:51:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10752348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingButTeeth/pseuds/NothingButTeeth
Summary: When the Golden Trio decided to return to Hogwarts for their final year, they knew things would be different.They had no ideahowdifferent.Draco returns for one final year as well, having just barely avoided a lifetime sentence to Azkaban thanks to the scheming of his father - but while his body is free, his mind is something else altogether.Hermione has a bright idea that sets in motion a chain of events that have far reaching consequences - the most notable of which will be the unexpected but passionate love affair between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.





	1. A Return To Hogwarts

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any comments/questions you can reach out to me via my Tumblr - where I will also be posting the occasional commentary while I write. 
> 
> Chapters are going to be pretty short for the most part. I've separated them mostly by "scene". 
> 
> This is also my first fic, so hey.  
> -Teeth

### A Return To Hogwarts

Harry stared upwards at the dark ceiling above him, eyes having snapped open only moments before. His sheets stuck uncomfortably to his skin, shirt plastered thickly to his chest as though someone had rolled his torso in shrink wrap. Through clenched teeth and an aching jaw, he took deep, slow breaths – breaths that began clunkily, and were sporadically halted – but soon they took on a smoother quality and his pulse, in turn, soothed. He focused on the expansion and retraction of his lungs, letting the images that woke him slip away from his thoughts; he knew better than to allow them a foothold in his waking mind. 

Luckily, he only shared a room with Ron this year – and he was sound asleep, undisturbed by his neighbor's sudden wakeful nature. Everything was less crowded this year; Hogwarts felt hollow, subdued. The halls and classrooms that were once bursting with life now contained only a trickle. First Year Muggleborns had the worst of it, Harry reckoned - they had no idea what they so narrowly missed, and continued on as though nothing had happened at all - as though no one had died here. You’d think the events of last year would bring them closer together, but things felt more divisive than ever: everyone knew who had stood where, who had lost someone.. And who had run away. How do you move past something like that? How the fuck does a school even begin that healing process? 

Harry rubbed his palm across his face, wiping away some of the sweat clinging to his brows. He closed his eyes, minding his breathing, and trying quite valiantly to find some sort of stillness within himself. He rolled to his side, counting his breaths until eventually, sleep allowed him to return to her - and while it did remain troubled, it allowed him to stay under for the rest of the night. These days, only waking up once was an accomplishment for Harry.

**  
Draco was alone. Slytherin was very nearly abandoned, or so it felt. He still wasn’t even sure why he bothered to come back this year; everyone _knew_. The Mark didn’t disappear when He died. Both his parents were rounded up and made a public spectacle - they managed to avoid imprisonment by handing over the named of other Death Eaters. Draco was no longer welcome at the Malfoy Manor, having failed in the eyes of his father. His mother didn’t share her husband’s distaste for Draco, but instead of putting her foot down to Lucius, had privately urged Draco to leave, and hope that time apart would sort it out. The Manor hadn’t really felt like home to Draco in years, but then again, neither had Hogwarts.. But at least up until last year he had friends there. That’s the trouble, Draco found, with making friendships based on one common thread; when it was snipped, those friends fell away. The Malfoys were disgraced among Death Eaters and the rest of the Wizarding World alike.

At the very beginning of the year, it was rough – the whispers. Things of his taken, or destroyed. Howlers. So many Howlers. The staff sorts through mail now – they never used to, before. _I guess it was putting people off their lunch,_ he found himself musing, bitterly. People of his own house loathed him, too, although not for quite the same reasons as the rest of his classmates. Many of their families were still intact; still believed. Some of them - idiots that they are - wanted to be the _next one,_ to continue where He left off, as though he was someone worth idolizing. They found Draco’s lack of dedication personally insulting. 

He stared at the wall, curled up on his side, for hours. If he slept, he didn’t know. He never knew, anymore, if he ever slept. He didn’t dream. His exhaustion was always constant, immovable. The next morning, his eyes were always still open and his mind still foggy, as though the past eight hours had simply not existed at all.  


**  
Harry blinked awake, relieved to find the room lit this time, the sun peeking through the window warmly, if tentatively. Looking over, he finds Ron splayed out quite attractively on his bed, mouth half agape and still drooling, hair sticking up in comically different directions, legs claiming opposite bedposts for their respective countries. With a grunt, Harry tossed a pillow at him – how he would ever wake up once he’s on his own, Harry hadn’t a clue – but then, he frowned, Ron _wouldn’t_ be alone, though, would he? He’d probably find himself moving into a place with Hermione after all of this if things go well. They’d live happily ever after. Ginny would marry some Quidditch star, and Harry.. well. Harry would join the Aurors after graduation, as he had planned. It was surreal, to say the least, the idea of an actual future again. He _died_. On purpose. He had made his peace, come within an inch of having the home he had always ached for - and now he was here. 

Harry swallowed, rolling out of bed and hastily tugging on clothes. Suddenly, he much feel like company. Ron would have to find his own way to breakfast. 

He walked towards the Great Hall, absently rubbing the sleep from his eyes and just hoping for the best in regards to his hair - he hadn’t even bothered to look before he left. Walking through the doors, he found himself a bit early - most of the tables were still pretty empty, and none of his friends had arrived yet. Claiming an empty spot, he began to pick at a muffin until Hermione showed up, understandably a bit surprised to find that he had beat her here. 

“Harry,” She said in greeting, sitting down beside him with a worried tone. “Are you..” She squinted at his now horribly disfigured muffin, “..alright?” She finished, somewhat lamely. She didn't know what she expected this year to be like, or how Harry - or any of them, for that matter - would cope after last year, but she didn't quite expect the Harry who returned to Hogwarts to be.. well, frankly, the Harry sitting before her now. It was six weeks into the school year now, and he felt more walled off each day. 

“I’m fine, Hermione.” Harry shrugged a bit, offering her an unconvincing smile in an effort to placate her. Shockingly, this was unsuccessful. Before Hermione could pressure him further, however, Ron plopped down heavily next to her, wordlessly beginning to shovel food down his throat - and so, Hermione's concern shifted to making sure he didn’t suddenly choke. With a grimace, Hermione elbowed Ron in the side in an attempt to remind the man to at least _pretend_ to have manners. 

Ron grunted, nodded to Harry, and continued to pillage the buffet. 

**  
Draco relished in his invisibility. It wasn't true invisibility, of course, but instead of actively glaring at him, people tended to just glaze over his body now, which was a marked improvement in his opinion. He took his time gathering his books for the day, smoothing the wrinkles out of his robes, and gathering the necessary homework. He never went to breakfast now - the smell of it make his stomach turn. He was pale and gaunt before, so people didn't tend to pick up on his change in weight, or if they did, they didn't care. Either way, he took lengths to conceal his body from judgemental - or mocking - stares. He stood in front of the mirror for a while, tying and retying the knot of his tie several times, frowning critically at his features - his nose, his sunken eyes, the things he could not change but could likewise not forgive. His thin lips pursed themselves into a firm, disapproving line before he turns away from his reflection. 

He moved slowly, as if trudging through knee-high sands. The lights were too bright, causing his retinas to simmer regardless of how frequently Draco blinked. Everything felt either distant, or far too overwhelming - he often found the sounds were too loud and the walls too shaky for his comfort; dizziness was a steady friend to him, and the ache in his core was her mother. As he walked to his first class in the D.A.D.A. tower, he was thankful for the extra time skipping the Great Hall awarded him. The stairs winded upwards, swaying - _was_ it the stairs swaying? Or was it Draco? He slid a palm across the handrail, keeping his touch light and casual lest anyone happen upon him. 

Professor Weasley - _ugh_ \- was setting up the desks as he arrived, unsurprised by his early pupil. Draco had become a creature of habit, developing strategic patterns to avoid.. distasteful encounters, and while Percy Weasley was far from ideal for companionship, at least he kept his mouth shut. The Gryffindors tended to revel in their maliciousness towards Draco. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws pretended he didn't exist, but not the fucking Gryffindors. He had blessedly few classes with the bastards, although those few he had were by far the worst parts of his day, and of course where there’s _one_ Weasley.. Draco sighed. Percy - he’d sooner bite his own tongue off than call him _Professor_ , the prick was barely older than Draco himself and almost certainly only got the stupid position because of McGonagall being the new Headmaster.\\. And no one else wanting to take the post. 

Draco took his pick of the empty desks, and avoided Percy’s haughty, darting glances by doodling on the corners of his parchment. Soon enough, the other desks began to fill, and class was underway - mostly book work, again. If there’s one thing Percy loved, it was _essays_. 

**  
Harry and Ron hastily made the climb up the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower, Ron groaning in between labored breaths all the while, “If we are late.. to Perry’s class again.. He is going to be the biggest twat.. Probably write home to Mum..” Harry nodded along, legs stretching over the stairs two at a time until they reach the doorway. Ron clutches his heart dramatically, wheezing as he takes a few precious moments to gather himself before entering his brother’s domain. Harry, too, struggled to catch his breath - those stairs were much too steep. As they pulled themselves together, Harry found himself wondering if anyone had ever fallen down those stairs. Just looking down them made his skin ripple in discomfort.

“Oi!” Ron nudged him. “C’mon.” Harry blinked, and then started, cracking the door open enough for both of them to slip in. _Nice,_ Harry thought, _Just in time._ Percy was gearing up, no doubt about to tell them all which chapters their next essay would be based on, when they entered. 

What was not so nice, however, was the fact that all the good seats were taken.


	2. Espionage Amateur Hour

### Espionage Amateur Hour

Harry and Ron shared a look before resigning themselves to the rather unpleasant fate that awaited them. The only two empty spots were the ones immediately to the left of Malfoy. Ron quickly sidled up to the one farthest away, leaving Harry the middle - and an apologetic shrug. _What?_ Ron mouthed defensively in response Harry’s glare. 

Harry sat down, purposefully avoiding eye contact with Draco. They hadn't spoken since.. Well, honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure when the last time they spoke even was. All of his memories following the Battle felt crowded, blurring together to form one big, vague mess. Harry knew, of course, of the fate that befell his parents shortly after Voldemort’s death, and he had heard him talk to others in passing, but they had somehow managed to avoid actually being together since they returned to Hogwarts weeks ago. 

It was _weird_ that Malfoy came back to Hogwarts, Harry thought. Now that he considered it, it was even weirder how _little_ of Draco he’d seen.. Harry frowned, suspicion beginning to cloud his thoughts. He risked a side glance to his right, _What is he up to..?_ he wondered. _No,_ Harry decided. He didn't like this one bit. 

Before Malfoy could notice him staring, he returned his eyes to his book, tuning out Percy’s droning as he tried to map out Malfoy’s behaviour since they’d all returned.. But he was coming up blank. He’d have to talk to Hermione, he decided. If there was something afoot, she may have picked up on it. He couldn’t recall seeing Malfoy with any of the Death Eater wannabes that took up a quarter of the remaining Slytherin students, but whatever went on in their common room, Harry wouldn’t know about, would he? His brows knitted together as he speculated just what his classmate had been getting up to all year. He should have been suspicious from the start - but there was no time for that, now. He’ll just have to keep a much closer eye on Draco from here on out. 

He stole a second glance, looking at Draco - _really_ looking at him this time. His hair was a bit longer now, cheeks more sallow, if that was even possible. _He looks sick,_ Harry noted. _How long has he looked like that?_ His cheekbones and jawline jutted out sharply, while any soft pockets of flesh - his eyes had caught the worst of it, he noted - seemed withdrawn, as though trying to burrow far enough inward to kiss his skeleton. 

_What is he writing?_ Harry shifted, squinting at Malfoy’s parchment to no avail. He’d been scribbling since Harry walked in, and somehow Harry doubted it was for the assignment - no one cared _that_ deeply about the ramifications of casting spells nonverbally under water. 

Actually, now that he thought about it, Harry didn’t think he had seen Draco look this unwell since that day he walked in on him and Moaning Myrtle. Harry quickly averted his gaze, fastening it back on his parchment, his throat constricting as the scene vividly plays out again in his mind... 

_Sectumsempra!_ Fuck. Harry sighed, pushing the thought away - he had almost killed Draco that day. It wasn’t something he enjoyed revisiting; in fact, he had done his best to rationalize the events of that day, struggling to find some justification that eased the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he continuously came up empty. 

**  
_Why does he keep staring at me?_ Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat, moving his left arm to rest on top of his desk in order to obscure his papers, the back of his neck tensing up. _What’s his fucking problem?_ Things had just begun to settle into a routine for him, and he wasn’t going to let the high and mighty _Potter_ screw it up for him. He’s had _weeks_ to make some sort of scene, and nothing - and now, _now_ he has the nerve to go all stalker just at Draco was getting (almost) comfortable? Unbelievable. 

He refused to look up to see if he was still watching for the rest of the class - he wouldn’t give Potter the pleasure of knowing he had succeeded in making him unsettled. _I guess it was stupid to think that this would last,_ he thought bitterly to himself. If there’s something Potter _can_ ruin, he _will_ ruin it. He was infinitely irritating, but predictable. Draco had thought they were finally passed all of Harry’s skulking around, that he would finally leave him alone, but no; it looks like he’s not through meddling in Malfoy’s life yet. 

Draco’s eyes bored into his parchment, fingers shaking ever so slightly as he doodled in the margins of his notes, fighting the urge to turn ‘round and challenge his would-be Peeping Tom, nostrils flaring in disgust. He could _feel_ Potter’s smugness from here; it radiated from him and infected the very air with pretension. Draco’s right hand clenched, nails digging sharply into damp skin of his palm. _He’s probably so fucking proud of himself,_ Draco ranted inwardly, _Saved the whole fuckin’ world, killed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in the flesh, and sticks around to parade around the scene of the crime like a goddamn peacock, as though his dramatics last year hadn’t landed him enough attention. _Draco inhales sharply, reminding himself to ease his jaw, which had begun to throb. He’d need his wits about him for whatever bullshit Potter might be about to throw his way - he could froth about Potter’s holier-than-thou saviour complex later, when he was alone.__

__Time seemed to drag on until the hour was up, every minute building the tension between the two, with much of the rest of the class largely oblivious. Draco spent the entire time bating his breath, waiting for Potter to make a move, but he never did._ _

__Time did eventually pass, it passed like a kidney stone, but it _did_ pass, and Draco was prepared when it did. _ _

__He moved swiftly, gathering his things as quickly as he could, standing up without so much as a cursory glance at his watchful rival, turning sharply on his heel and exiting the classroom the moment before the rest of the class could so much as pack their quill away._ _

__Draco stared uneasily at the long staircase swirling below him, heart throbbing in the hollow of his throat. The front bits of his hair stuck to his forehead, skin shimmering with a light coat of sweat; his ears rang distantly as his palm slid down the smooth railing, feet rushing against one another to reach the bottom of the stairs. He kept his eyes downward, focusing on the next step ahead of him, head shaking to the side nervously as though trying to ward off the impending nausea._ _

__His mouth began to flood, the ringing growing closer now, aggressive and insistent - and this time it brought company._ _

__It felt as though millions of gnats had conglomerated in the corners of his vision, swarming around him until he could only see through the small heart of their storm; his hands began to tremble involuntarily - he had pushed himself too hard, too fast, and now his heart felt like it was about to leap out of his throat, past his lips, and throw itself down the staircase with or without Draco’s consent._ _

__Too late, Draco slowed to a shaky halt; his knees giving way beneath him like someone had kicked them from behind - and the last sensation he was aware of was the sudden rush of warmth beckoning him downwards._ _

__He did not feel the impact._ _

__**  
Harry breached the gap between his desk and Ron’s to give him a right kick to the leg, muttering out of the corner of his mouth once he catched Ron’s attention, _”Malfoy’s up to something.”_ Harry tilted his head, moving his hand in such a way as to indicate his plan to follow him. Ron, based off of his sigh and head shake, wasn’t particularly enthused._ _

___Whatever,_ Harry decided. If he was the only one who thought this was suspicious, so be it - he was right last time, and he was right again now - he could feel it in his bones. Trouble was coming, and Malfoy was somehow in the thick of it. _ _

__Harry berated himself for not bringing his invisibility cloak with him. He never should have stopped keeping it on his person, and now he was suffering for it. No matter; he would grab it the next opportunity he had._ _

__Once the class was dismissed, Harry gave a quick nod to Ron, and turned to follow Malfoy - who was somehow already halfway out the door. Leaping to his feet, Harry abandoned all pretense of nonchalance and scurried after him. Ron groaned a bit, grabbing his things and following begrudgingly after them, muttering something under his breath all the while._ _

__Harry cooled his steps somewhat once he reached the staircase, relatively confident in his ability to trail Malfoy from a distance from here now that he had a line of sight on him. The rest of the class was still rounding the corner, led by Ron, when Draco suddenly stopped, swayed for a few seconds like he had been punched in the gut, and collapsed backwards; head cracking soundly against the stairs he had only moments ago abandoned._ _

__Harry froze, feet on two entirely different steps, mouth loose with surprise._ _

__Oh, _shit. FUCK,_ He hissed at himself. The class just reached them; Harry, a few steps behind, and Malfoy, slumped over a few feet ahead of him, clearly out cold. _ _

__”PROFESSOR!” Someone shouted from the crowd. Percy came running, glasses and cloak both crooked in his rush. “Harry,” He began, cautiously._ _

__“I didn-”_ _

__“Hospital Wing, Mr. Potter. _Now_ , please.” Percy’s tone was strained, clearly eager to push off the whole ordeal on someone else. He flicked his wand, levitating Draco’s body ahead of them, and grabbing on to Harry’s arm with his other hand. “Move along!” He barked breathlessly to the students whispering behind them._ _


	3. Muirburn

### Muirburn

Harry’s head was practically just one big _Fuckity Fuck Fuck_ Carousel, with some variation of the obscenity punctuating every footfall between the tower and the hospital wing. No doubt people were already claiming that he had shoved Malfoy down the stairs in some sort of vigilante fit of vengeance. 

Harry was forced to hop a bit to keep up with Percy, who was a good four inches taller than Harry, but who also didn’t seem to make any allowances for the difference in their heights while dragging him along by the crook of his elbow.

Percy flung open the doors to the hospital wing theatricality the moment he saw them and if Madam Pomfrey were a woman capable of being startled, she certainly would have been. That, however, was not the sort of woman Madam Pomfrey was. Madam Pomfrey was a short, delicately built woman with gray hair that was kept perpetually tied back in a bun so tightly that it actually seemed to smooth some of the wrinkles along her hairline - and not a strand of that hair was ever seen out of place, no matter what hour she was interrupted at, or how dire the case she was treating. She quickly sized up the situation, and her mouth, the corners of which were echoed by small, stern wrinkles, barely opened at all when she spoke. 

“Well, put him down!” She addressed Percy sharply, clearly exasperated. 

Percy promptly dropped Malfoy on the nearest empty cot - so promptly, in fact, that he did not do it nearly as gingerly as he ought’ve, a fact which was made clear to him by the subsequent cluck that Madam Pomfrey directed towards him. Thankfully for Harry, though, in the process of dropping Malfoy, Percy also set free his other captive of what was beginning to feel like some sort of impromptu aggressive square dance. 

“Let me have a look, here..” Madam Pomfrey muttered, nimble hands already whisking into work. “What happened?” Madam Pomfrey asked Percy, fingertips gingerly scouting about the site of Malfoy’s head-to-step collision. 

Percy, in turn, looked at Harry.

“He - well, erm. Fell, I think. Down the stairs. On the head!” he added, only semi-helpfully, gesturing to his own skull for emphasis and clarification. 

Madam Pomfrey stared at him like _he_ had fallen hit his head. “..I see. And him?” She jabbed a thumb at Harry. 

“Ah, right. Harry..” Percy trailed off for a moment, eyes screwing upward as he presumably gathered his words together. Harry, meanwhile, found his feet shifting uncomfortably under Madam Pomfrey’s accusatory gaze, while his eyes simultaneously fought against the urge to fixate on Malfoys neck - or, more accurately, on the blood dribbling down the back of his neck. The blood’s source was a thin gash which ripped open the backside of Malfoy’s head, turning the white-blonde hair below the cut a bit of a meaty pinkish color. 

“...Harry was there,” Percy settled. “He’s not-” Percy turned to Harry with sudden alarm, “I mean, you’re not, are you? Injured, or?” He trailed off anxiously. 

“...No, Professor,” Harry reassured, more calmly than he felt. “I’m not hurt.” 

“Well, there you have it!” Percy exclaimed, as if they had just settled some vexing debate. 

Madam Pomfrey shook her head tersely, shooing the both of them out with one hand while returning her hawkish gaze to her newly assigned patient. “Out, out then! I’ve got work to attend to.” 

Percy swept out of the room without a fuss, relieved to be free of the situation, - chest a bit puffed up from successfully handling his first student injury single-handedly, and with flawless execution at that! - leaving Harry behind. Harry _also_ found himself relieved, although his relief was mostly thanks to avoiding the headache of being blamed for Malfoy’s ungraceful landing and also for finally being rid of Percy’s stumbling word casserole. 

“Erm, actually? Madam Pomfrey..?” Harry paused at the threshold, addressing her tentatively.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” She replied without looking up, hands knuckle-deep in some sort of gritty green ointment which she was in the process of slathering generously over Malfoy’s wound. 

“Would it be alright if I stayed for a while?” He wasn’t sure why he asked, but it just seemed _wrong_ to leave him there alone. And, of course, Harry wanted to know who else would show up to see Malfoy, and where Malfoy would go when he was released from her care - the justifications tripped over themselves nearly as soon as the impulse struck. Madam Pomfrey sighed, wiry shoulders easing a bit as she looked up at Harry. Her eyes narrowed for a moment before they finally softened. 

“Give me half an hour, Potter. You can visit him then,” She allowed, offering him a kindly smile. 

Harry nodded gratefully, stepping out of the wing feeling rather dazed. 

_The Cloak!_ he suddenly reminded himself. Harry dashed through the halls, ignoring the looks and confused shouts from his fellow students as he sped through the Gryffindor common room and dug his invisibility cloak from underneath his dormitory bed. Harry flung it across his shoulders, and returned to the Wing undetected by Madam Pomfrey or her still-unconscious patient, having missed very little in the meantime. 

Harry stood awkwardly to the side, listening in as she fretted over Malfoy’s body. “Hmm.. Going to be just fine, you are..” “...Need to get more food in you..” “What happened here..?” 

Harry edged closer to Malfoy’s bed, intrigued by Madam Pomfrey’s growing concern. He peered at the scene before him with interest; Madam Pomfrey was rolling up one of Draco’s sleeves and gingerly probing a small circular blemish on his arm. 

Upon further examination, Harry found that Malfoy had _many_ such marks, some of which were nearly healed, and some of which were clearly quite fresh. “...Burns,”Madam Pomfrey concluded with a _tsk_. 

_Burns?_ Harry wondered. Was he.. To _himself?_ Harry felt a sinking feeling in his abdomen, which only grew in density when Madam Pomfrey rolled up Malfoy’s other sleeve - the site of which earned an “Oh. Oh, dear,” from Pomfrey and a horrified shiver from Harry. 

By the looks of it, Malfoy must have tried to burn his Dark Mark off - and was unsuccessful. It was scabbed over and frothing an unsettling ooze from a few particularly mottled spots, and looked as though a firm press would cause the pus no doubt swimming underneath to bubble to the surface and leak with more vigor. Thankfully, though, there didn’t seem to be an odor - a fact that both Harry and Madam Pomfrey were very grateful for. 

_I.. Never thought about that,_ Harry stared, transfixed at the site of Draco’s mangled forearm. He hadn’t even considered what happened to the Dark Marks when Voldemort died. _I guess I just thought they would disappear,_ he reasoned to himself. Clearly, they had not - or, at least, Malfoy’s hadn’t. 

Harry stood there for a few hours, missing the rest of his classes in favor of surveillance. His skulking was unfruitful - no one came to visit Malfoy, and based off of the state of his Mark, Harry could guess why. Harry knew that Draco’s parents had turned against their fellow Death Eaters to save their own hide, but he wasn’t sure where Draco landed these days. He had, after all, switched allegiances more than once. Harry found a sour taste in his mouth as he recalled saving Draco’s life near the end of the Battle - _despite_ the fact that Draco was attempting to weasel back into the good graces of Voldemort at the time. Naturally, Draco never bothered to thank Harry for intervening - he had far too much pride, Harry was sure. 

At some point Harry must have dozed off, because he didn't remember Madam Pomfrey leaving the room, or the candles going out, and when he awoke he and Malfoy were alone. 

**  
Draco did not wake up all at once. It was a gradual, groggy affair with several false starts; his dreams were vivid and felt thick and chaotic, but when he finally did regain consciousness he was unable to remember any concrete details about them. The only souvenirs they left behind were the crusts in the corners of his eyes, the dried drool upon his cheek, and the roiling, tense core of nausea in his stomach. 

“Ugh,” Draco groaned, slowly sitting upwards. His hand immediately went to the source of his pain; a large knot at the base of his skull. His fingers soon explored further, discovering the gash under matted hair and some sort of poultice that smelled like dragon dung. As Draco’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he also discovered that he was not alone. About a foot away from his bedside was a single, pale hand. . 

_Potter,_ Malfoy realized almost instantaneously that it _had_ to be. He must have followed me here and fallen asleep on the job like an idiot. Considering just _how many_ times Potter managed to get caught, it astounded Draco that he somehow always managed to scrape by in spite of his own colossal incompetence. 

“Enjoying the show, Potter?” Malfoy spat, glowering at roughly where he thought Harry’s head must be. 

The air around Harry shimmered, and he bolted upright with a panicked expression that Draco found rather satisfying. 

“Oh, sorry,” Draco sneered, “ Did I disturb your nap?” 

“I..” Harry faltered, eyes wide and patchily stubbled cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the indignity of his situation. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” 

The words hung in the air for a moment while Draco merely looked at him in disbelief.

“Wanted to see if I was _alright_?” He repeated, incredulously. “Take a fucking look, Potter! Of course I'm not _alright_.” Draco gestured to his head, lips still peeled back in a haughty sneer, tone laden with mockery. 

**  
He couldn’t take Malfoy’s snotty attitude any longer - how many times had they collided? They had both nearly killed the other and saved each other’s lives as well. Harry was the reason Draco wasn’t cold in the ground right now, and he still had the nerve to treat him as though he were rotting garbage?

Harry then did precisely the opposite of what he should have done. What he _should have_ done was leave without saying anything at all, save for maybe an apology, but what Harry _actually_ did was take a step closer to Malfoy, brows bristling heatedly, “I saw your arm, Malfoy. You can't clean away what you did - what any of _you_ did. They never should have let you lot avoid Azkaban.” 

Harry turned away the moment he saw the look on Draco’s face. The second the words flung out of his mouth he knew he’d regret saying them, but it was as though his lips had already been halfway through the motions before his mind was even alerted to what they were planning. 

Draco froze, with look like he had been stricken across the face. His cheeks boiled with color, eyes gleaming with the dew that frequently preceded tears. He shouted after Harry, pitch off-kilter by at least a decibel, forced in the stress of the moment to crack upward, _”You don't know SHIT about what they did, Potter! YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT!”_

Harry flinched as though the words contained weight all of their own - he could feel them slam against his turned back, but nevertheless, Harry did not falter in storming out. He slammed the doors of the hospital wing behind him with as much force as his arms would give, and headed back to his common room, tugging his invisibility cloak back over his body. He wasn't ready to answer Ron’s questions yet. 

Harry wasn't ready to talk to anyone, yet.


	4. Keep Your Friends Close..

### Keep Your Friends Close..

Draco spent the quiet hours following Potter’s outburst and before Madam Pomfrey’s morning rounds turning Harry’s words over in his mind. Draco was well aware of the mistakes he made, both due to the flawed ideology he was raised with and had internalized, and later under the threat of death or worse looming over his - and his family’s heads. He wanted to scream at Harry for being so completely oblivious to how lucky he was - he had been ushered from the beginning into the arms of Dumbledore, entering the Wizarding World completely unaware - blissfully ignorant of how complicated things could be. 

Potter never had to live with the pressure of risking losing everything should he try to do the right thing - no, good things always happened to Potter when he did the right thing. His fame grew, and somehow even Potter’s own failures somehow eventually managed to work themselves out in his favor one way or another. Good things rarely happened to Draco when he attempted to do the right thing, and yet he was still _trying_. He couldn’t help but find himself wondering if Potter would have been able to do the same, had their roles been reversed - or if he would have broken under the strain. 

To have his Mark put on display, stared at and then mocked for trying to desperately remove the hateful image from his flesh, made Draco feel very near the edge. While he hadn’t expected any recognition for his efforts - he hadn’t even wanted anyone to know about it, at least not yet - he certainly hadn’t been prepared to have it used against him like this. Draco felt as though a strong gust from any direction may be enough to topple him over entirely. 

He sat up, back propped by pillows, staring out the window across from his bed until Madam Pomfrey returned to check on him. 

“Ah, I see you’re looking better,” She remarked upon seeing him already up and awake. 

Draco merely looked at her. 

“So, the damage to the back of your head should be mostly healed up by now, but you’ll probably have a nasty headache for the next day or so,” Pomfrey went on for a moment, and then faltered. Her tone softened into a gentler one, “..and we have to discuss your arm, of course-” 

“No.” Draco stated flatly. 

“No?” Pomfrey looked at him in confusion. 

“No, we don’t have to discuss it.” Draco elaborated shortly. 

“That’s.. Not precisely your call to make, Mr. Malfoy, with Dark Magic like that -” 

“That’ll be all, Poppy.” Headmaster Minerva McGonagall stood in the doorway, tall frame casting an imposing shadow. _How long has she been there?_ Draco wondered, twitching in surprise. Pomfrey frowned, clearly displeased, but nevertheless left the two of them alone. 

Draco, at this point, very much wanted to be anywhere else. He considered faking another fainting, but doubted that it would get him out of whatever McGonagall had in store from him. No, he may as well get it over with now. Draco eyed the Headmistress in suspicious silence. 

McGonagall peered down at Draco, her thin wire-framed spectacles resting about midway down her nose. “I hope you understand that I am here for all of my students, Mr. Malfoy, and not just those in Gryffindor House.” If she expected Draco to react, she was sorely disappointed. “Madam Pomfrey is.. quite concerned with your condition. She is not alone in her concern.” McGonagall’s steely gaze studied Draco carefully before continuing, “Despite all of her.. faults, your mother has been writing to me in confidence, and requested that-” 

She was abruptly cut off by a suddenly _livid_ Draco, “Don’t you dare,” he snarled, “Don’t you _dare_ speak to me about my mother.” He glowered up at the woman, who merely arched brow, her tone infuriatingly level, “As you wish, Mr. Malfoy. Do come by my office should you reconsider getting treatment for your.. Affliction.” She cast a pointed glance to his Dark Mark. Draco fought the urge to throw something. 

While on her way out, McGonagall called over her shoulder, “Oh, and Draco? I thought you ought to know - Dumbledore always thought you were the finest wizard to come from your family in his time here. He held you in excellent esteem, regardless of... Whatever you may have been led to believe. He wasn’t able to show it, but I know he and Severus both were quite fond of you.” 

**  
Harry was awoken by the uncomfortable feeling of eyes on him. He cracked open his eyes to see Hermione and Ron sitting on the edge of Ron’s bed, and staring quite expectantly at Harry. “Oh, good, you’re up,” Hermione began without missing a beat. Ron, at least, had the good graces to look at least a bit apologetic. 

“Now, I have all of the assignments you missed yesterday, but you really ought to seek out Professors Flitwick and Vector, because they were pretty upset - Oh, and while we’re on _that_ ,” Hermione frowned a bit, “Everyone thinks you shoved Malfoy down the stairs, and while no one particularly _blames_ you for it, Harry, I don’t think it’s wise to-” 

Harry sat up suddenly, gawking at Hermione, “You can’t possibly think that that’s _true_ ,” Harry hastily began - as it turned out, needlessly. 

“No, no!” Hermione reassured him quickly, Ron nodding along in alarm, “Of _course_ not, Harry.” 

“We spent all day yesterday telling everyone the git just tripped on his own,” Ron added. 

“Okay,” Harry sighed, sinking back into his bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I - thanks,” He mumbled. 

Hermione and Ron shared a look before Hermione bit her bottom lip, “Um, well,” She started tentatively, “We _were_ wondering, though, what happened to you last night? You aren’t in any sort of trouble, are you?” Ron broke in before Harry could reply. “You know, if you are, I’m sure I could talk to Percy and-” 

“It’s alright, Ron. I’m not in trouble at all, actually.” Hermione squinted at him in confusion. 

“Then where were you all night?” She questioned. 

“I. Erm. Stayed with him in the infirmary.”

“ _Why_?” Ron and Hermione exclaimed in unison. 

“I thought.. I thought maybe he was up to something,” Harry muttered, suddenly quite enraptured by the print on his bedspread. “So, I.. erm, I spied a bit,” He finished sheepishly. 

Hermione pressed her lips together tightly before shrugging a bit, leaning a little against Ron’s side. “I see. Well, did you see anything?” 

“No,” Harry mumbled even quieter. Ron stood up, gesturing for Hermione to follow. “Listen, mate, I’m absolutely _starved_. We’ll see you downstairs, yeah?” Harry nodded gratefully, smiling a small, fond smile. “Yeah. Um, thanks - for everything,” He motioned towards the small stack of homework. 

“Of course,” Hermione said, smiling lightly back at Harry. 

Harry eyed the pile warily after they left, deciding to leave that particular problem for Future Harry to deal with. Right now, all Harry wanted to do was sleep - and so he rolled over, pulling his comforter back over his torso with a heavy sigh, thankful that it was Saturday - no classes to worry about for the next two days.

**  
Draco hurriedly made his way back to his room while most of the rest of the students were either still sleeping or in the middle of breakfast, doing his best to avoid the few people who he _did_ see in the halls. Once safely in private, he collapsed onto his bed, eyes burning. He had just wanted _something_ within his control to go the way he had planned for it to, but he couldn’t even have that, could he? 

No doubt Potter was already out running his filthy mouth, telling everyone about last night - or maybe, Draco hoped bitterly, he would just go along with the claim that Harry had shoved him. That, upsetting though it was, wasn’t nearly as mortifying as the truth. 

Draco just felt so _tired_ , all of the time. It was the sort of exhaustion that, even though Draco knew this wasn’t really true, felt like it had always been and always would be; sleep, coffee, even pepper up potions - nothing even made a dent in it. It was simply how he was now, and while he tried his hardest not to give the thought any real consideration, he was beginning to dread that the exhaustion’s hunger could only be sated by a permanent sleep. 

His spitefulness outweighed his misery in the end, however, and Draco spent the majority of his Saturday morning fantasizing about ways to get even - no, more than just _even_ , he wanted to truly hurt him - with Harry. He felt an overwhelming need to prove, somehow, to everyone that their hero wasn’t nearly the person they believed him to be. 

An even smaller thought whispered in the back of Draco’s mind, _And I’m not who they think I am, either,_ but he cast it away. He had resigned himself a while ago that no matter what personal changes he made, people would never look past his history, his lineage... His Mark. No, he’d simply have to settle for vengeance. 

**  
Hermione grabbed Ron’s arm, stopping him abruptly once they reached the common room. “We’re skipping breakfast,” She announced, much to Ron’s obvious dismay. “I need you to come with me to the library,” She continued firmly. “We have work to do.” Ron gaped at her for a moment, before allowing himself - begrudgingly - to be dragged along. 

“But why,” He groaned, “Can’t this wait, Hermione? Listen, I love you, but they’re going to have _muffins_ today and-” He faltered at Hermione’s glare. “ _No,_ Ron, this can’t wait. We need to figure out a plan before Harry catches up with us.” Hermione sat down at a table, eyeing the emptiness of the library with a pleased expression. Ron sat across from her, obviously confused. “Without - but what’s going on?” 

“McGonagall called me to her office last night,” Hermione began in hushed tones, casting privacy spells around them as she spoke, “and after speaking with her, I have to agree Ron, things need to change at Hogwarts and we have to start it.” Hermione clasped her hands nervously in front of her, nose crinkled a bit, “ And while it might be a bit.. _unpleasant_ we - well, I mean, you must’ve noticed how tense things are this year?”

“Of course I have! But it only makes sense for things to be rough, doesn’t it? People _died_ here.” _And some of the people who killed them are still here,_ Ron thought. 

“I know, but _Ron_ we can’t just.. If we leave this year with things the way they are now, Hogwarts won’t ever be the same again, not really. Things with the Slytherins have to be patched up before - _No, Ron, listen!_ ,” She plead as Ron began to open his mouth angrily. “Just listen. I know it sounds intolerable - I _know_ but if this rift between houses stays, in a few years another hateful Slytherin is going to reignite things and..” She trailed off for a moment, rubbing her temples. “We have to find out a way to at least show everyone that not everyone blames the whole Slytherin house for what happened.” She paused, staring sternly at Ron, who didn’t seem quite as forgiving as Hermione. Nevertheless, he held his qualms in until she was finished, “If we make them outcasts, Ron, it’s just going to add fuel to the fire. They’ll think of themselves as misunderstood, and cling even harder to racist ideals, and you can’t honestly think I _like_ this, do you? But we have to try. There _are_ some Slytherins who are trying,” She continued softly, “-and we ought to meet them in the middle, I think. If we don’t do it, no one will.” 

“Who did you have in mind,” Ron finally asked, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. 

“Er- well, you see, that’s the difficult part,” Hermione swallowed. “You see, we.. we’ve got to befriend Malf- _Draco_.” Hermione corrected herself.

Ron looked positively horrified.


	5. ...And Your Enemies Closer

### ..And Your Enemies Closer

The thing about Saturdays, Ron thought, was that they _ought_ to be sacred. You had monday through friday for classes, sunday for last minute homework and being anxious in advance while also not doing anything to relieve that anxiety, but _Saturdays_ , Saturdays were the golden days. The days of Quidditch matches, of no classes or homework, and the best breakfasts, Ron was positive, were always on Saturdays. The house elves held Saturdays sacred. Harry held them sacred. Ron, why Ron had been a devout believer in the superiority of Saturdays for as long as he could remember, but _not Hermione_. Hermione was Saturday Apostate, and while (usually, unless it was exam season) she respected Ron’s religious beliefs even though she did not subscribe to them personally, today she had gone too far. Not only was he missing breakfast entirely, but he was supposed to spend the rest of the day brainstorming ways to mend fences with _Malfoy_.

Hermione had, after much coaxing, eventually brought Ron ‘round to her way of thinking and persuaded him not only to think of “potential bonding activities that appear organic” to ease Malfoy into their social circle, but also to keep their activities hidden from Harry, at least for the time being. 

It wasn’t as though Ron couldn’t see where she was coming from - she had made good points, Ron was just skeptical that there was much to be salvaged from the Slytherin House - and moreover, that _they_ were the ones who were supposed to do it. He was especially doubtful that Malfoy was somehow their best candidate. Why they couldn’t have chosen someone they hadn’t all punched in the face - well, two out of three, anyway - Ron hadn’t a clue. Whatever McGonagall had said to convince Hermione that Draco was worth all the effort Hermione hadn’t revealed, or at least not the specifics of it. Ron found himself very much wishing he could gripe to Harry about the whole situation, but a promise was a promise. With a disgruntled sigh, Ron stared at the chessboard in front of him, ignoring the laughter and shrieking coming from the first and second year students lingering in the common room. _Merlin’s soggy underpants,_ Ron grouched inwardly, _Were we this loud?_

He supposed they probably were. 

**  
Draco found himself in the library - not an unusual state of affairs for him, particularly this year. It was quiet in here, and usually his former friends avoided it. Sometimes even Draco needed a change of scenery from his room - time became confusing there, it moved clunkily and at a pace entirely alien to him. Here, at least, there were concrete opening and closing hours. He found that grounding, soothing. But he wasn’t here today to be soothed. 

He wasn’t precisely sure just yet what form of retribution he’d exact from Potter, but he figured the library was as good a place as any to start. He wandered the cramped rows of books, a small frown tugging the corners of his lips downwards. Perhaps later he ought to examine the Restricted section for more inspiration... Why, exactly, Hogwarts bothered having a Restricted section at all was beyond Draco - if they didn’t want students to read those books freely, they shouldn’t keep them on school grounds at all, or at least not in the library proper. It was a strange oversight indeed, and not the first one Draco had noticed in his time here - nor was it the first one he had taken advantage of. 

In the meantime, though, Draco decided to table his search for inspiration. He sat down at an empty table, tucked away in the back of the library and hopefully too inconveniently located for anyone to bother trying to approach him. He surrounded himself with books and got out a quill - it would be a few hours yet until he could sneak into the Restricted section of the library, but he may as well use this time productively. He had quite a bit of catching up to do after missing classes yesterday, and the library was really the only place he could go without fearing some kind of harassment outside of his dormitory. 

**  
Hermione walked quickly back to the library, figuring it was best to allow Ron some time by himself to mull things over and allow the concept of befriending Draco to settle a bit. Chess always helped him process, and while Hermione was a brilliant witch, she was a rubbish chess player. Besides, if she had stayed in the common room with him, she wouldn’t have been able to contain herself. She knew she had to think of some sort of non-threatening way to approach Draco, but that was a surprisingly difficult plan to come up with. She wasn’t sure there would be anything in the library to help her per se, but being surrounded by books seemed to help whether she was reading them or not; her best ideas always came when she was in a library. 

Now, usually Hermione wasn’t the impulsive sort, or the kind to believe in things like fate (much to Trelawney's dismay) but when she saw Draco in the back of the library it _did_ give her pause. She hadn’t intended on speaking to him _today_ , but who knew when she’d get a better chance? Honestly, she hardly ever saw Draco in the dining hall or on the grounds - whatever classes he had, he had none with her, although he did have one with Harry and Ron. While she loved them both dearly, she suspected it was probably for the best that neither of them were with her right now.

Hermione took a moment to gather her courage, struggling to put together some sort of pretense - no matter what she settled on, though, she imagined it would be a tough sell. 

_Right,_ she braced herself, _You can do this._ With a small nod, she headed towards Draco’s table, a preemptive flush creeping up her cheeks. 

“Draco! Er, hi! I was wondering - you take Defense with Harry and Ron, right? - we’re studying Vampires and Harry isn’t around, and you know I’m just having a bezoar of a time with Per-um, Professor Weasley’s latest essay assignment and I was hoping maybe..” Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. 

“You were hoping I could help you. With your Vampire essay.” Draco’s voice was a slow, haughty drawl that sent Hermione’s blush running, causing it to bleed down her throat. Her voice hitched higher, as if it that would somehow make her proposal seem totally casual. She found herself focusing on a spot just above Draco’s head. 

“You always do really well in Defense so-” While Malfoy _was_ prideful and in theory you _do_ get more flies with sugar.. Draco was a bit more intuitive than a bug. 

**   
“Cut the shit, Granger. What do you want?” Draco cut Hermione off sharply, nostrils flaring impatiently. _Did Potter put her up to this?_ Draco wondered. His words had the desired effect, though - Hermione stopped babbling and stammered out an almost equally unbelievable excuse. 

“I was hoping,” She whispered, “That perhaps we could be friends.” 

“Friends.” Draco repeated coldly. 

Hermione sighed, looking directly at him now, “Yes, Draco, _friends_. After everything that’s happened, I thought.. I _think_ it would be good for us. On the next trip to Hogsmeade, maybe we - Ron and I, I mean - could catch up, you know?” Upon seeing Draco’s look of utter incredulity, she amended with, “I mean, I just realized that we don’t even _know_ you, not really, and that’s hardly fair, is it?” 

Draco opened his mouth, fully prepared to send Granger back to the Gryffindor tower in tears, but a sudden realization stopped him - and he smiled. 

“Okay.” Draco responded suddenly.  
“O-Okay?” Hermione stumbled, eyes wide with shock.   
“Yes, Granger. _Okay_. I’ll.. meet with you at Hogsmeade.”   
“Oh! I, um, thank you! Sorry for.. Well, er - I’ll see you then, I guess.” Her voice was rather squeaky, Draco noted. He didn’t care for it. Hermione - mission miraculously accomplished - walked away from him, clearly dazed. 

Draco couldn’t stop smiling. _Potter won’t know what hit him,_ he thought to himself gleefully. This was not what he had in mind - not even close - but somehow it was perfect. Sure, this plan would be a little more delicate than hexing him would be, but it would also be _so_ much more satisfying… 

How hard could faking it be, really? While Hermione was intelligent, sure, she was hardly what you would call socially suave - and Ron, _well_. Draco snorted, reminding himself that this was all for a good cause; making that little snot nosed Potter miserable. 

_By the time I’m through with them, they won’t even remember his name,_ Draco sneered. Who would Harry turn to then? Despite all of his fame, he wasn’t exactly dripping in friends, was he? 

Weasley would be the difficult one to turn, Draco knew - but he was confident it could be done. Even more importantly, he was confident he could do it before the year was out.


	6. Letters From Home

### Letters From Home

As he flicked through the letters, a small, handwritten envelope caught his attention and his heart began to thump. It was a messy scrawl that necessitated letter crowding, crowned by not one but _three_ Howlers than he’d ever gotten before; but also far more gifts. At the grim recommendation of Headmistress McGonagall, however, Harry chucked all the gifts immediately into the trash - there was no real way to tell what was from a well meaning fan and what was from a enraged Death Eater or sympathizer, and as Harry had no desire to be poisoned, into the bin they went - and this time Ron knew better than to try and save any of the presents. He was still justifiably rankled by the events of his disastrous seventeenth birthday. 

The handwriting on this letter was distinctive, and one he recognized immediately. What he couldn’t understand, though, is why Dudley would be writing to him _now_. He ripped open the seal, unsure all the while whether or not he wanted to know if his aunt or uncle had passed - or how he would feel. That seemed a far more likely scenario than the one that actually lay inside his mail. 

_Harry,_

_I had one of the Aurora whatsits help me send this off before they all left. He said I didn’t need any stamps, but I put some on anyway - I think he was messing with me._

_They said you killed that criminal who’d been hunting you. They also said that you’re doing well and back at Hogwash for your last year. I hope everything’s alright? We don’t hear of any of your people in the news, so there’s not much for me to go on._

_We’re back home now, but the house is weird. Mum and Dad are mostly the same, just quieter. Well, mostly Mum._

_I’ve started classes at Brooklands College, and I’m moving to my own flat next year._

_If you wanted to visit sometime, that’d be okay._

_-Big D_

Harry blinked, rereading the words several times over. Dudley had continued to surprise him. A slight grin crooked his lips, and Harry dug around his nightstand for a quill and some parchment to pen a reply. Dudley’s words had been a bit awkwardly written, but he clearly meant well - and that meant more to Harry than he ever expected it to. 

**   
Hermione, head down and hand firmly grasping Ron’s forearm, walked as quickly as she could through Hogsmeade, which was bustling with students despite the foul weather. The ground was sopping wet, the air frigid, but not quite wintry enough to turn the downpour into snow, just enough to maximize Hermione’s discomfort. 

Harry had, as anticipated, declined to participate in the Hogsmeade outing today and instead was staying in Hogwarts to avoid being harassed by reporters, and Hogsmeade under an invisibility cloak wasn’t much fun at all - besides, he wanted to take advantage of the peace he found when Hogwarts was left mostly to himself. Hermione and Ron, of course, made no effort to change his mind - they did not want him to find out about their budding accord with Draco Malfoy - at least, not until they could figure out a way to tell him. Ron had been difficult enough for Hermione to convince, and Ron was in love with her. Besides, Hermione reasoned, they didn’t even know yet if this attempt would work. 

By the time she and Ron entered The Three Broomsticks, both of them were shivering vigorously, hair smoothed and slacked down by the rain. Ron promptly undertook the burden of finding and guarding a table, tucked away in the back corner of the pub, while Hermione got them both a mug Bungbarrel Spiced Mead to help chase the chill from their bones. She would have gotten one for Draco, too, but she wasn’t sure what he liked - or if he would trust them enough to drink from something he didn’t witness being made. Together they nervously awaited for their guest to join them, sitting side by side, clammy fingers entwined. 

**  
Draco fared much better in the stormy weather - not only were his robes embroidered with protective and weather resistant runes, but he had also had the good sense to cast a charm over himself to keep his hair dry. He was already a bit late for the meeting - but this did not scramble his stride. It was by design that he was tardy. Malfoys were _never_ the first to arrive, regardless of the function. Draco did not think that his father would approve of this endeavor regardless of how he headed into it, though. 

Draco had long since abandoned any hope of reconciling with his family. His father was too stubborn and hateful, his mother too demure, and Draco himself was far too embittered by the both of them. 

He swung open the thick wooden door to The Three Broomsticks with a carefully neutral look prepared on his face. Golden opportunities such as this didn’t land in Draco’s lap often, and he was determined to take full advantage of it. He casually scanned the tables until he spotted Ron and Hermione huddled in the back, looking quite miserable.

_I’ll need a drink for this_ he sighed to himself, ordering a Simison Steaming Stout - which, despite the initially off-putting clouds of steam, was quite tasty. 

Draco strode smoothly, as though mimicking a Dementor’s glide, towards his friend-hopefuls, and quelled his immediate desire to say something snarky about how Ron looked - I mean, _really_ , it was like someone had thrown a long haired weasel in the wash; at least Hermione had managed to maintain an air of dignity - and instead sat down, white brows raising delicately. 

“Sorry I’m late,” He stated, not quite smiling.   
“No, no, we were early,” Hermione reassured quickly, clenching Ron’s hand warningly under the table. 

Ron grunted in agreement, examining his mug as he sipped its contents with uncharacteristic restraint. 

They sat in stiff silence for a while, Ron dedicated to thoroughly exploring his drink and nothing else, Hermione exuding forced cheerfulness, and Draco looking at the both of them with more confidence than he felt. After a while of this, Hermione was unsurprisingly the one to reignite conversation. 

“I’ve seen you around in the library a lot lately. Have you been reading recreationally or..?” She trailed off curiously, cupping her own mug firmly between her palms, relinquishing Ron’s hand.

“Both, I suppose,” Draco said, quite pleasantly. Ron looked up uncomfortably, as though unsure what to make of this version of Draco. He was almost unrecognizable without his trademark sneer. 

“Oh?” Hermione perked up. Books were a topic she felt understandably confident in. “What are you reading currently?” 

Draco paused, and debated for a moment whether or not he ought to tell the truth. Some modicum of vulnerability, he decided, would be necessary to get them to trust him - and so, he responded quietly, “Dominating Dementors: A True History of Azkaban,” He said honestly. 

Neither Hermione or Ron quite knew what to say to that, but it was Ron who responded first. “I'm sorry, mate.” He mumbled, inclining his head as if to reference, well, everything. His family were terrible people, and while Ron didn't want them to _not_ be in prison, it still had to suck to have all of your family dead, locked up, or just barely free.

“Don't be,” Draco responded coolly, “They deserved it.” 

Things got a bit warmer after that, and they fell into an eventual rhythm - Ron and Draco debated Quidditch for most of it, and Hermione considered the meeting a tentative success. 

They made plans to meet semi regularly, mostly during odd times when they could be reasonably certain Harry wouldn't find anything amiss. Surprisingly, it only took a few of these meetings for the initial awkwardness to melt away - Ron and Draco, they soon found out, had quite a bit to discuss between Quidditch, mutual distaste for a great deal of their shared family (Ron was in particular pleased to hear childhood stories from Draco’s side of the family; it turned out that Narcissa had told Draco a great deal about Bellatrix growing up, and none of it good. These stories amused Ron, of course, but they _fascinated_ Hermione.) and discussions of Ministry politics. 

Draco and Hermione had a bit of a rougher time finding common ground - they stuck mostly to scholarly pursuits. Somehow, Hermione hadn't expected Draco to be nearly as well read as he was - but then again, she had never seen the library in Malfoy Manor. Mostly just the dungeon. 

It was the sort of friendship that blossomed in fits and starts, but after the initial sputtering became quite warm. The three of them had more in common than any of them had bargained for, and Draco almost felt bad for involving them in his ploy... almost.

They met most frequently in the Room of Requirement, which provided them and their tentative amity the luxury of privacy. Many days were spent there, the set always changing but the cast constant. It was on one such day that Hermione startled everyone by suddenly saying, 

“You know, I think Dumbledore was right. We sort too soon.” The words hung uncertainly in the air until Draco replied, quite quietly, “We shouldn't sort at all.”


	7. Friendly Fire

### Friendly Fire

Draco sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the full-sized mirror across the room. Nimble, pale fingers gently coaxed his hair into place, perfecting his Slytherin tie, buttoning his shirt all the way to his collar. He sat to do all things he could get away with sitting for for now - both out of fear of being brought to his knees unexpectedly by his new mistress, and out of fatigue. He knew, on clearer minded days, that this relationship may be the end of him, but that knowledge didn’t deter him; it merely ensured that he would keep this affair secret. 

He wasn’t concerned with weight, necessarily, it was not nearly so simple as that. That wasn’t how it started, and he suspected that if it ever ended, that would not be her siren’s call beckoning his relapse. He struggled to recall exactly how it _did_ start, now that he reached for it. His appetite fled from him, that’s true, but he did not chase after it. On occasion the hollow ache in his stomach would growl in protest, but the moment Draco smelled food, any desire to eat was gone. When he absolutely had to - either to avoid making a spectacle of it, or to keep himself just above the brink of being unable to leave the room at all - he could eat, but it only served to make him nauseous. He never induced vomiting - he had excellent teeth which he fully intended upon leaving unstained - the act of eating did make him nearly sick enough to do it unbidden.

He was very concerned with being caught with her, not just because he knew others would be judgemental, but most of all because he was terrified of having her ripped away from him. He was scared of having such a vulnerability exploited, sure, but he was more scared of having her taken away entirely - scared enough to choke down an apple every day or so, for example. Losing a battle to win the war, so to speak. 

When he was not in class, or rendezvousing with Hermione or Ron, he slept. Draco was in a semi permanent state of daze, the fog lifting only with extreme concentration and effort on his behalf. He found himself becoming somewhat of a zealot to his cause. He couldn’t fix his life and he couldn’t redeem himself in the eyes on the Wizarding World, not really. What he could do, however, was steal a sliver of retribution from Harry.

Draco felt quite satisfied in his progress with Ron and Hermione thus far - they were surprisingly cooperative. He couldn't help feeling anxious about the next step forward, though - it's easy to have an uncomplicated friendship when it is kept secret, but once the three of them began being seen outside of the Room of Requirement being friendly, or even civil, things would… complicate. It was Draco’s job to ensure that he didn't lose focus; if he wanted to push Harry out, he needed to make sure that the growing relationship between him, Ron, and Hermione survived the trials of the public. 

Besides, they were beginning to run out of things to talk about that weren't… problematic. Up until now, they had kept things light and calm, but the two of them had gradually begun mentioning Harry with more and more frequency, presumably to gauge Draco’s feelings on the matter. 

Draco did not want his feelings examined, however. Not by himself and certainly not by Hermione or Ron. He focused on only one feeling: _vengeance_. There was no time or room for self-doubt now. 

And yet… it was strange to witness Harry through the lense of his friends. To hear stories of him that were different than Draco had anticipated them to be. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. He had never - well, not in his House, and certainly not within his family - borne witness to the sort of dynamic Potter had crafted with Weasley and Granger. Tried as he mind, a seed or two fell from their lips as they spoke of his exploits with a perspective entirely different than the frustratingly egotistical display he, and many of the other Slytherin students, had witnessed and heard. Instead of a cocky moron consistently bumbling into blind success due to luck, or more intelligent betters, Harry seemed… human. 

Draco kept the seeds secret even from himself, denying their calls to root. After all, if Harry had been able to fool the media onto his side, could that not also be the case for Ron and Hermione? 

**   
Harry couldn’t help but notice that Ron was acting strangely lately. At first he thought it was just a touch of guilt over spending more and more time with Hermione alone, but Harry had reassured him on multiple occasions that he didn’t mind being left out and actually was quite grateful to be absent during their more private sessions. 

Harry no longer suspected that that was what drove Ron’s guilty glances and anxious fidgeting. He kept making himself distant or scarce when there was no need for it, and Harry had been so absorbed with picking apart Draco Malfoy’s activities that he hadn’t really picked up on it until it had been nearly two weeks. _Ron has always been rubbish at keeping secrets,_ Harry knew. _Something’s up, and they’re not telling me._ Hermione kept being delicate around him, _handling_ him, and the only time he saw her vexed anymore was when he tried to probe them for ideas on what Malfoy could be cooking up. 

And so, Harry had set a trap for Ron that he knew he couldn’t resist: snacks, chess, and butterbeer. One of the perks of sharing a dorm with your best friend was that there was no one to complain if they stayed up too late into the night. With a little help from the kitchen’s house elves, and a chess set hauled upstairs from the common room into their dorm, everything was perfectly set. 

Harry, after weeks of coming up empty, set his suspicions about Malfoy aside. The winter holidays were fast approaching now, and Harry had finally figured out why his friends were behaving so strangely - all he needed now was to dig it out of them… and reassure them that it was _okay_. That Harry was okay. 

Ron had gone out with Hermione to the library at her insistence to help her fill out histories. She hadn’t forgotten about the house elves, no matter how much they wanted her to - and since “hiding” her knitting everywhere had only resorted in a filthier common room, her latest campaign was recording their histories - a crusade sparked about a month prior when she tried to find a book in the library from a house elve’s perspective on their history, and found out that none existed, and so now Hermione and Ron were spending all their free time interrogating house elves and trying to establish records.

_Dobby would’ve loved to be a part of this._ A hollow pang accompanied the thought. 

Harry vowed to accompany Hermione on her next round of interviews. The house elves were still a bit skittish around her, no doubt afraid of being accidentally set free, and were more relaxed if Harry was there with them. Honestly, if it weren’t for Ron, Hermione might not have been able to get her project off the ground at all - house elves _loved_ Ron, an affection that was mutual especially because house elves tended to show their affection with sweet treats. 

It was then that Harry realized that he had missed them much more dearly than he had realized - he had spent the last weeks hardly spending time with them aside from meals and classes, and for what? Whatever Draco was scheming, and he _had_ to be scheming, he was being too buttoned up about it for Harry to suss it out. 

_Death Eaters don’t change,_ Harry reasserted to himself firmly. 

A softer thought trailed timidly after it, unbidden - 

_Regulus did._

Harry set up the chess pieces.


End file.
